As I promote my 11th book, Chasing Shadows, a part of me — still naive, still hopeful — wishes it could be read by someone who meant the world to me. I’ve never craved global recognition; the only validation I ever truly wanted was the smile on his face as he held my work in his hands. That alone would have been the greatest compliment, far beyond anything the world could offer. But sadly, he’s no longer here to see it — not in the way I wish he were.
My greatest regret in life is not finding my voice as a writer while my father was still alive. He was my guiding light, and when he passed away, it felt as though someone had switched off the sun — I was left stumbling through darkness, directionless and hollow. For years, I wandered in that emptiness, desperately searching for something to anchor me. Eventually, I found that light again — not in the world around me, but in his memories.
When he was alive, I was little more than a spoiled child, causing more trouble than joy. I often wonder how much easier his life might have been without my reckless words or careless actions. Today, my writing is my way of speaking to him — a silent apology, a long-overdue tribute, a desperate hope that wherever he is now, he’s free from pain and somehow reading every word I write.
This piece is about the final moments I spent with him. I consider myself lucky to have been by his side when he closed his eyes one last time. But that moment is also laced with helplessness. I couldn’t do anything to ease his pain, and that thought haunts me to this day.
If there’s something you want to say to someone — say it now. Don’t wait to say “I love you” or “I’m sorry,” because tomorrow is uncertain. And if they’re gone before you get the chance, you might be left with the kind of regret that echoes in your mind forever. I live with that echo every day.
In the beginning, it was deafening. I would cover my ears, hoping to silence it. But every photograph, every memory, every time someone mentioned him — I’d hear it again: What did he want to say?
I never spoke about this with my family. I kept it all inside. The guilt festered and became unbearable. Eventually, I had to make the difficult decision to see a psychologist. But therapy isn’t easy for someone like me — stubborn, skeptical, and emotionally guarded. Honestly, I worried more for the therapist than for myself. Most didn’t make it past the first session. A few survived two, but then I gave up.
That’s when I turned to writing — and writing, in turn, saved me.
I didn’t have to pay it. It paid me — not in money, but in something far more precious: peace of mind. I couldn’t run away from the pain of losing him, but writing taught me to live with it. Every time I miss him, I write — and through the pages, he speaks to me. Call me crazy, but if you’ve ever loved and lost, try writing. You might find healing too.
I remember that day vividly. The hospital had given up on him. “We’ve done all we can,” they said. So we brought him home in an ambulance, still attached to a portable ventilator. As we drove through the morning chaos of Gurgaon, the sirens wailed — but inside the ambulance, it was calm. He was calm.
After eleven days of struggle, he finally seemed at peace.
“I’m bringing Dad home,” I told my mom and sister.
Sitting beside him, I knew it was the last time I would see him breathe. I called his name through tears, hoping he’d open his eyes. But he remained silent. His eyes had been closed for five days. That ventilator had kept his body alive, but I believe his soul had already left us days earlier.
Suddenly, he took a few shallow breaths — and then, nothing. Silence. I kissed his hand, placed both his hands on his chest, and just like that — my support, my strength, was gone. I felt hollow.
He had suffered for years — chronic stomach issues, strokes, and near-constant pain. And yet, in the end, it wasn’t just the illness that broke us — it was the helplessness. The mystery of what he had wanted to say in his final moments is something I carry like a stone in my chest.
On the night of January 4, 2013, his condition worsened. Despite regular treatment and home visits from our family doctor, his health deteriorated suddenly. By morning, he was unresponsive.
We rushed him to the hospital. I cradled his head in the backseat, my hand pressed against his faint heartbeat. My mother cried softly; my brother drove silently, focused and scared.
When we arrived, the doctor on duty didn’t offer comfort — only judgment.
“Since when has he been unwell?”
“Since late last night.”
“And you bring him here now?” he said, with a cold smirk. “Must have been too cold last night, huh?”
We stood in silence, shamed by a man who was supposed to help us.
“We’ll have to put him on a ventilator,” he said, shoving a declaration form at us. Overwhelmed and exhausted, my mother signed it without hesitation. We thought we were saving him. We didn’t know what we were signing up for.
Over the next few days, we clung to hope. When he opened his eyes once and fluttered his eyelids in response, I begged the doctors to remove the tube so he could speak. “He wants to say something,” I said.
But every time, they refused. “He can’t breathe on his own,” they said. By the sixth day, his eyes stopped opening, and he never responded again.
His body swelled with fluids; his face lost its spark. The doctors started new medications, told us about a spreading infection, and all we could do was wait and pray.
On the final day, I sat beside him.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry I was rude. I’m sorry for not being a better son.” I held his hand and poured my heart out.
Then a doctor came in and said, “He won’t survive without the ventilator. We’ve done our best.”
I told them I wanted to take him home. The paperwork was already ready — like they’d been waiting for me to surrender.
“We’ll mention he’s being shifted for advanced treatment,” the doctor said, avoiding my eyes. It was a lie — a formality. They had taken our money, exhausted their options, and were now washing their hands.
I didn’t argue. I signed the papers.
He passed away in the ambulance. But I was there. And that is something I will always cherish.
Grief is a silent illness. It eats you slowly from the inside until you don’t recognize yourself anymore. I live with the guilt of not hearing his final words. But I’ve turned that pain into purpose — helping others make better decisions when their loved ones are in critical condition.
We were never guided. The guilt imposed by the doctors clouded our judgment. Maybe our choice wasn’t right — but it wasn’t wrong either. We acted out of love and desperation.
If you carry guilt like this, know this: It will not bring them back. But it will keep you from being there for those who are still with you. Let go of the guilt. Honour their memory by living fully, without shame, without regret.
You meant no harm — only hope.
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